After the Celebration of Redemption
After drizzling in the coral city, the twilight story seemed to disappear with the silent roar
a trembling Timorese cikukua sought refuge
submissive, silent, drenched in the night.
At the edge of a small garden a middle-aged woman stood
with his hands raised towards the pitch of the night
held to greet his lover.
He always waited at the gate of the same old house
the gate that his true love gave him
with parables that revive his tongue
to speak in all languages of love.
I looked at him like the world was blurred crystal wings and fins
and my tears seemed to be covered in crystals, wings and fins
which falls tenth time at every silent banquet.
The shadow of the tree shortened, he gave me drinking water
waiting for the morning to ripen he brought me a glass of water
drinking it so quickly, he went and brought another story.
I imagined my mother's journey, as far as I could
the long morning walk, followed as far as I could
because there is nothing that can be done to do good things
as good as the soles of mother's feet depicted on every walk of life.
Look at the little child in his mother's chest, no one forbids it
no one forbids them from crying
no one forbids them from laughing
your neighbor's love words, he is the only one you have.
When love becomes a question, the message arrives at the beak of the fence and the plaster bird
coloratura is almost unbelievable for flying
just the color we dream of
it took three back officers: two on the pulley and one on the flute
and you think the rain is falling like grace.
Night with thick fog, I want to finish today's improvisation
because all my poems faded in his inner eyes
regret and cold night air
is any tenor that makes sense to sing in a sad song
after the celebration of redemption: I want to sing again,
as deep as the same wound,
as far as the story goes that is not pondered.
Atambua, 25 November 2025
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